Spontaneous, But Not Unwanted
by SacredAir
Summary: It just sort of... happens. The thing is – just like you imagined – kissing her is such a wonderful experience you can't bring yourself to stop. Deeks/Kensi, Deeks POV


**AN: I'm fairly new to the NCIS:LA fandom - I pretty much only started watching it about two weeks ago, and I love it! I've been AWOL from here for a while due to real life and all, so I'm returning with this little Kensi/Deeks one-shot/half-drabble sort of fic, written from Deeks' POV.**

**I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did, please let me know what you thought, reviews are always welcome and much appreciated :)**

It just…sort of _happens._

You don't know what in the name of the holiest of cows possesses you to do it – because you're usually quite nonchalant about these things – pushing sappy, romantic thoughts to the backseat of your brain and letting the charms and the jests lead the way. You like to think of it as your safeguard, something you've perfected out of habit, something to prevent emotional damage.

It's Callens fault, you decide. And Sam. It had been them who had so eagerly suggested the idea of twenty four hour surveillance on their current suspect, and who better to carry surveillance out if not the Dynamic Duo, Kensi and Deeks? You'd felt a mixture of 'hell yes' and 'fuck no' and for one moment you'd opened and closed your mouth like some sort of pathetic dying fish, struggling to find the words to express your utter horror and complete glee that were co-inhabiting your brain.

Callen and Sam – the sneaky bastards. You know they're aware of what – or rather who – slips past the safeguard you've so carefully constructed for your mind, and you can sense that their blasé attitude towards the big elephant in the room – a.k.a 'Deeks is completely whipped' – has gotten a little too tiring for them.

You and Kensi in a hotel room for twenty four hours. Forty-eight hours, tops. Seriously, you don't know whether to be terrified or extremely turned on at the prospect.

Naturally, as you expected would happen, you find catch yourself sneaking glances at her out of the corner of your eye. If she notices (and you're clever enough to know she does) she says nothing, elegant profile turned towards the large pane of glass, binoculars dangling from a strap wound around a slender wrist. Her fingers dance daintily along the wooden frame, a random choreography that leaves you wondering just how soft her touch is-

Jesus. Holy. Stop. It's only been four hours, and she's unknowingly penetrating the walls of your safeguard again – sending the beginnings of what could possibly be impure thoughts flashing though your vision.

Prolonged exposure to the one thing you need but you cannot have – the sweetest form of torture.

_Dammit. Dammit to hell._

* * *

><p>Fourteen hours, several teasing remarks and various punches to the arm later, your knee is jiggling up and down erratically and you feel like you've consumed an entire lake's worth of caffeine. There's no way you can even attempt sleep, not in the worked up state you're in. Kensi, on the other hand, seems to be fighting to stay awake, her thin eyebrows furrowed in concentration – as if they're going to prevent her eye-lids from drooping , two-toned gaze staring intently out of the window. You can sense she'll put up a fight if you insist she take a break – after all, Kensi Blye and 'giving up' aren't two words you can put in the same sentence – so you decide that a subtle suggestion might convince her to throw in the towel for a little while.<p>

'I'll take first shift.'

She snaps her head round to look at you, pupils dilated with what you assume is a sudden rush of adrenaline at your suggestion that she can't hack it. Honey-brown curls frame her face, and her darker eye is almost black. The Cheshire-cat grin she gives you almost makes you shiver. 'Not a chance.'

For a moment, you cut yourself a little slack and allow your brain to acknowledge the fact that she's gorgeous – she's gorgeous and brilliant and it's just the two of you for god-knows how many more hours. It's a dangerous thought to allow yourself to have under the circumstances, but hell, you've been good and self-restrained for the better part of the eighteen hours. One little slip up isn't going to do any harm.

'Kens, I'm literally about to start bouncing off the walls here. It's not like I'm going to be able to lie down still, let alone sleep.'

'You don't know until you try.'

'I'll start whining,' you smirk. 'And you won't like it…'

She snorts, nose scrunching up. '_Start_ whining? You _started _whining about sixteen hours ago, Deeks.'

Her bright smile is like a battering ram to your safeguard (you say 'bright' because you refuse to accept the word 'adorable' into your vocabulary) and you don't realize you're staring until her expression softens, tired eyes blinking owlishly.

'Okay. _Fine. _But if anything happens and you don't wake me, it's not the suspect you'll have to worry about.' Getting up from the armchair, she silently takes a detour round to the bed. You're too busy to notice she's right next to you until supple fingers ruffle your hair appreciatively, and for a moment you wonder what would happen if you grabbed her hand and pulled her down on your lap- your hand twitching as it contemplates moving to take her own-

Jesus Christ, you think as you curl your fingers into a tight fist, skin stretching white across the back of your knuckles. You really need to get a grip on yourself.

* * *

><p>One horrifically long hour later, the tension in your neck is unbearable, and you've bitten your nails to the point of almost drawing blood, trying to find relief for a feeling that's like an unbearable itch that is impossible to scratch. In fact, you think, it's ridiculous how you're acting- it reminds you of the time you quit smoking, and holy cow, those were a few of the most uncomfortable days of your life.<p>

It'd be so easy to tear your gaze from the window – so easy to turn around and look at your partner lying on the bed. She'd crashed out about five minutes after lying down, small mumbles escaping from her lips every now and then- winding their powerful tendrils around your chest.

You hadn't been one to peg her as somebody who talks in her sleep. And you've been trying- God knows you've been trying – not to decipher the occasional quiet noises, but your self-restraint tank is in need of a refill, and now, you can't help but listen and wait. The only thing keeping you from turning around and staring at her like a love-sick teenager is the fact that you've got a job to do.

She growls into the pillow once more, and you can't help but remember that time when you where seven, and Rebecca Morgan had come round your house with her new kitten. It had been a small, perfect ball of fur – all curled into itself just like that, and you'd been so in awe that you'd not wanted to stroke it, settling instead for tentatively prodding a tiny, pink paw pad with your finger. The kitten had let out a content mewl, and your heart had grown.

You wonder if Kensi is smiling in her sleep-

The cell phone begins to vibrate on top of the table and you almost fall off of your chair, scrambling to pick it up before it wakes her.

'Deeks.'

You recognize Callens tired voice on the other end of the line. 'Just got a call from Eric – this guy is clean.'

'You're sure?'

'We've wasted almost a full day for this guy, so he better be. Meet you back at Ops in an hour.'

'See ya.' You hang up and smile - sure, the day had been wasted. A chuckle escapes your lips. As far as you're concerned, you got to spend twenty-hours with the most amazing woman on the planet. Sure, it was unbearably exciting to the point where your self-control had been severely tested, but a waste of time? No way, José.

Turning around to wake the woman in question up, you remember just a fraction too late that you'd forbidden yourself to do just that.

And for good reason.

_Shouldn't have turned around, Marty. Shouldn't have turned around._

She's lying on her stomach, one denim-clad leg dangling over the edge of the mattress. The pillow has been turned into a makeshift cuddly toy which she's now got one arm slung over, face half-pressed into it. Her hair is wavy and wild, slightly lion-like in appearance – you prefer it that way, you think, because it dulls the sharp edges and adds a childish pureness to her appearance (there's that, but also in your dreams, you're the cause of its disheveled state).

But it's her face – that pretty, striking face - that causes you to get up and sit on the side of the mattress, fingers lingering over her cheek. There's just something about the way her mouth is slightly open, that wicked mouth that can go from forming classy insults to breath-taking smiles in all of a second – the same mouth you've imagined kissing across your jawline. Lips slightly parted, she sighs – it's pathetic, but it makes you want to giggle like a thirteen year old, because she looks like a princess, all perfect and beautiful without having to lift a finger. And now that you're looking and you're within touching distance , your hand acts out of its own accord, stroking her hair, cheeks. You skim your thumb across her lower lip.

And that's when it happens.

That's when you lean forward and press your lips to hers, your safeguard crumbled, your self-restraint gone.

She tastes like sugar – sinfully rich sugar that you just want to bathe yourself in, and your brain literally flat lines then and there. The thing is – just like you imagined – kissing her is such a wonderful experience you can't bring yourself to stop. So although your original plan was a chaste peck on the lips (you know, that plan you made about half a second before doing it – so not much of a plan) it takes longer – so much longer for your semi-dead brain to kick-start some common sense into you.

In fact, it takes so long that the only thing effective enough to pull you away from her is the flutter of her eye-lashes against your skin.

Her eyes are open. Her eyes are open; you're looking into them – looking into those captivating eyes of two different colours. She stares at you with an unreadable expression, her lips still parted, and you back off of the bed quickly, stomach plummeting with guilt, because you feel like you've done something awful, that you've violated her in a personal way (and you wish you didn't feel so good about it). You shouldn't have done it.

She'll never trust you again.

Fucking hell, that was something you sure didn't want.

Gathering up your jacket and cell phone, you clear your throat and force yourself to look her in the eyes – because being shit scared is no excuse for not agknowledging what's just happened. You may be many things, but dishonest isn't one of them.

She's sitting up now – staring out the window with her arms clasped around her knees. Her gaze snapping up to meet yours a fraction of a second too late – you've caught her spacing out – something really un-Kensi-like. Through the guilt you're secretly reveling in the fact that you've caused such an impression (though you hope it's a positive one rather than a negative one).

When she finally does meet your gaze, her eyes flash with unspoken emotions that pass a terrifically pleasant current through your body - but all at once she's putting on her boots and grabbing her phone, before all but hurtling out the door without saying a word.

Well hell, you think.

Putting your foot in it? Yeah, that doesn't even cover it.

* * *

><p>The next few days are awkward. Well, really, you weren't expecting any differently – but that uncomfortable yet pleasurable current is still palpitating between the both of you. You, at least, can feel it.<p>

On the fifth day after it happens, Kensi still hasn't bought it up, and neither have you (you don't know whether that gives you credit or not). In the few instances that you've been alone with her, the both of you have opted for the silent way of dealing with things.

You're really not so good with silence.

Nothing is the same anymore, you think, after the day is done. Sitting on your surfboard, in the middle of the sea, you work yourself up, because why is it that you have to be patient for all the good things in life? Perhaps it's not even worth being patient, because after what you did, you stand to lose so much more than you could gain.

Love is stupid.

You should have never fallen in love with her. You should have made that your own little rule, a customized version of her 'no second date' motto.

You wait another half-hour, legs dangling in the water. When it's clear that the waves aren't going to pick up, you grow tired of waiting and paddle back to shore. Even the sea is making you wait.

Walking along the quayside to wind down, your skin drying and tanning at the same time, you attempt to drive Kensi out of your brain, looking around you to find some sort of distraction. There's not many people around at this time of day, a few elderly women going for a stroll, arm in arm. Teenage boys, two of which you recognize as frequent morning surfers – you nod at them as they pass you. There's a quick, light patter of feet coming from behind you, coming closer, so-

A hand grabs you firmly by the shoulder and spins you around, making you drop your board onto the deck with a thud. And hell, this was really the last thing you needed right now, another fight, so as you feel yourself coming to face your assailant, your arm prepares to throw a punch at whatever punk is behind you.

Before you can do that, though, soft lips are planted firmly against yours.

They taste like sinfully rich sugar.

When you open your eyes, you find Kensi staring back, her hazel eye glimmering with mischief; her brown eye almost black with some other emotion that sends a pleasant fire-like sensation through your body. She smiles for the first time in days, a big beautiful smile that has you grinning back like a silly fool.

'Who said _you_ were the one who got to make the first move?' she teases challengingly.

When you realize what's really been bugging her the last few days, you start to laugh. 'Don't tell me – no, wait, _please_ do – you were actually pissed at me because I didn't let you get there first?'

The look on her face is so childishly thunderous that you just have to lean in and kiss her again, cupping her jaw with your hands. 'And here I was thinking you were so upset at me being so forward that you weren't ever going to talk to me again.'

You begin walking again – she's slipped her hand into yours, weaved her fingers through your own (and you don't want to sound like a overly hormonal teenage boy on his first date, but you're not gonna lie – it feels so cool) – and when you sneak a glance at her she's smiling at you again. 'Nah,' she nudges your jaw with her head gently. 'Nah. You and I not talking would suck.'

'Yup,' you quip. 'It would majorly suck.' You pause, and then- 'We're good?'

You watch her as she looks down at your interlocked fingers, pale and olive skin meshed together – and then looks back up at you. There's a spark in her eyes that you don't often get to see – and you feel honored that she feels this happy when she's in your company. You hope she knows it's mutual. She laughs, squeezing your hand.

'Better than good.'


End file.
